


Hunger

by ChocolateTeapot (brilliantdelusion)



Category: Sunless Sea
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Communism, Gen, Horror, Murder, Nightmares, Religion, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantdelusion/pseuds/ChocolateTeapot
Summary: Comrade Davids is not at all happy with what the Smiling Priest is serving at the Chapel of Lights.
Kudos: 1





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net. Dedicated to Elfe, who occasionally leaves the Neath.

Thousands of candles shone brightly in the darkness. They were visible for kilometres – Davids was pretty sure everyone else would have said miles, but she didn't like the imperial system. The very name rankled and it was a mess. If she didn't use metric they'd probably all be dead by now.

She nodded along as White told her how he was looking forward to the feast the chapel offered all travellers. It was the main topic of conversation since they had left the Avid Horizon, so she'd heard it all before. But swabbing the deck didn't require too much attention either.

As he reminisced about the dishes they had been offered the last time business took them to this corner of the Unterzee, she imagined the food herself. All types of meats, perfectly prepared and available in abundance. She smiled. A good nosh-up would be most welcome. They never went hungry aboard, but her criteria for purchasing supplies were durability, price and scurvy prevention, not taste. She wished she could share the coming meal with Andy, but the past was past. His guts wouldn't really have been up to it anyway.

Davids' only problem with the chapel was that she didn't like religion. Hell being a cheap place to buy fuel and something called souls being available on the open market weren't about to rid her of her atheism. Neither of these things were actually proof that god existed, no matter what the clergy bleated. And regardless, religion remained a tool of the powerful to convince the masses that they should trade the demands of the present for a false hope of life after true death. If that wasn't enough they always had hellfire to threaten, equating the Neath's hell with the place of their fantasies.

This made taking meals as a guest of the clergy awkward, no matter how charming and open minded the smiling priest was. Davids tried to remember his name, but couldn't. Actually, she didn't think he'd ever stated it, although she must have asked. Probably called himself the Smiling Priest in that London fashion.

The chapel's bell started to toll. Four deep, cracked clangs wafted across the stillness of Void's Approach. As the last of the sound faded away, Sigil cried out.

Davids dropped her broom. A sudden scream was bad news. Sigil was standing right at the prow, clutching the railing with both hands, staring straight at the chapel. His whole body was shaking.

Swallowing hard, Davids stared out into the murk. Mt. Nomad was said to haunt these waters. There was certainly some exaggeration in the tales, but how much? An ordinary lifeberg was already a terrible threat. The candles of the chapel aside, it was hard to make out anything beyond the steady light of their ship, but she could see no movement. "What have you seen? Everything alright?" Had the bell tolled a warning, not merely a greeting or time check?

No answer. She turned to the others on the deck. Had they seen something? They too were watching Sigil, but seemed equally uncertain. Then the main light was switched off, plunging them further into the darkness. Douglas was probably thinking along the same lines as she was.

Davids took another look at the shadow that was Sigil. She had to do something, find out what he had seen. She moved carefully, hoping to avoid tripping over anything in the dark. Hesitantly, she placed her hand on his shoulder.

He jumped and she pulled back. The touch seemed to have broken his trance. He turned to face her. "The bells and the lights!"

"Lights can go back on," she called up to the wheelhouse. After that fright, discovering that it was probably just Sigil being neurotic was a relief, even if her heart was still beating fast as the main light flickered back on. Perhaps she should ignore Sigil now as not to encourage such behaviour, but that seemed rather mean. She kept a tone of friendly concern as she talked to him. "What about them? They seem pretty much the same as last time-"

He shook his head frantically. "That was before! Before last night's dreams!"

"Dreaming of the next port isn't that unusual? And we're all looking forward to a good meal." When had "last night" been for him? That sort of thing held little natural meaning in the perpetual darkness. But he'd last gone to bed shortly after they left the Avid Horizon.

"You don't understand!" he howled, "This will be the key to recovering my memories! It has to! The sight and sound have removed all doubt that this is the place."

"I hope so," Davids said, although she didn't believe it. He was probably suffering from irrigo exposure and the chapel was extremely unlikely to be able to help. But well, Sigil had always been a bit strange and had probably been so even before he had lost his memories. He'd had that bizarre tattoo done right on his forehead after all.

She started to walk away from him again. Although... The Avid Horizon was uncanny. Perhaps visiting it really had awakened some forgotten memory. She didn't want to think too much about that place though. More than anything else, it was shatteringly cold.

A thought struck her. She looked over her shoulder at Sigil. Surely he wouldn't? But it was better to be safe. "We're heading to the chapel right now, Sigil! You'll be no faster if you swim, you'd drown! Stay aboard!"

He seemed to nod, but she found herself glancing nervously at him until they were ready to dock.

As soon as they pulled up alongside the pier, Sigil vaulted over the railing. Davids breathed in sharply. Yes, they were close to the shore, but the water was still cold and the ship would probably plough over him. She grabbed the boathook. No splash, but the engine sounds could have covered it up. If he was lying under the ship, possibly unconscious, it would be hard to fish him out, but it was her duty to try.

Just as she was about to raise the alarm, she spotted him. He was not in the sea at all, but already running towards the chapel, the candlelight throwing his rapidly moving shadow in all directions. Couldn't he be a little more considerate of her nerves? Would it have killed him to have waited another thirty seconds? Well, not literally, no, but he clearly was in a bad state. Had there not been times in her life when she had felt at the edge of madness and had she not then wished for sympathy?

"There's someone who can't wait for his grub," Jones said as she picked up the mooring ropes.

"I think I'd better follow him." Davids hoped that someone would affirm her decision, but as no such thing seemed forthcoming, she added, "Before he puts off our host." That at least got some reaction, even if it was just a "I hope he doesn't," from White and a "Suit yourself," from Jones.

Davids swung herself onto the pier. After a few steps to find her land legs again, she started jogging up the uneven path towards the chapel, trying hard not to slip on the snow. She was somewhat out of breath by the time she reached the summit.

Unfortunately, Sigil was not similarly winded. The priest had come out to greet them and seemed to be regretting it, as Sigil was standing right in front of him, clutching his red cassock in his fists and jabbering like only a madman could.

"I think you should let him go," Davids said, trying to catch her breath.

"I must agree with the captain's assessment," the priest said and Sigil fell silent. He didn't let go though, leaving the priest to pry his robe from clenched fingers.

Davids smiled awkwardly. "I do apologise." This was not the right time to correct his misconception. The Red Herring had no captain. Decisions were reached democratically and she was actually the ship's secretary. She could have been the captain, but that would have been wrong.

"It is really no problem." The priest flashed her a brilliant smile in return as he brushed out the creases Sigil's desperate grasping had left. "No problem at all."

"Can you help me?" Sigil asked.

"You'll have to repeat your problem more slowly before he'll be able to answer that."

"Oh no, no, no! I understood the first time. It's an interesting problem." The priest started tracing Sigil's sigil with his index finger. "I am most certain that we can help you. Answers are always hard to find, but we will be able to suggest a path that will allow you to find what you seek."

"Thank you! Thank you so much!"

But the priest held up his hand. "As much as we wish it could be, gratitude alone is not sufficient. We require your help in exchange."

Sigil blinked hard. After a few moments he said, "I'd give everything. Everything. I need to know."

Davids guessed they'd want money. London's poor had to make do with scraps, but in the end, people wanted money. Actually they wanted the opportunity, amenities and power that money represented, but that was a different story. The priest would probably call it a donation though. Well, assuming it wasn't too outrageous, the Red Herring had the funds. It could be docked from Sigil's share at a reasonable rate. She ought to warn Sigil that he would almost certainly be paying for platitudes and mystical nonsense, but that probably wouldn't dissuade him.

"It is our mission to feed the hungry and so give comfort to the wretched travellers of the zee. However, our supplies are running low and it is hard to replenish on this cold and rocky isle, so far from civilization. The zee gives, but only so much and, alas, the miracle of the loaves and fishes remains the domain of Lord Jesus. Besides, we yearn for heartier fare."

That was reasonable enough. And they were generous to all with their food, so she wasn't even bothered that they were likely to get nothing out of the trade. Davids nodded. "We will gladly share our supplies." She was perhaps overcautious in provisioning, but it did mean that they had some to spare.

The priest's smile briefly morphed into a frown. "The Chapel's Bounty must be fresh. The fresher the better. Still alive is the best."

Davids mentally ran through their stock and suppressed a sigh. Things like salted meats, dried fish, fungal bread, hard wheat bread, rice, tatties, onions and lime juice just didn't sound like they might fit the priest's criteria. Sigil's anguished expression was painful even to look at though. Think. While it didn't really count as supplies, some of their cargo might be of interest. "What about salt?" She'd heard they were interested in that. It helped keep things fresh, even if it did not fit there itself.

"We grind our own from eoliths. Can you offer us those?"

A strange source. "No, normal salt."

The priest shook his head. "It just wouldn't taste the same with such common stuff."

What else did they have? "A sack of fine Darkdrop coffee beans then?" They'd still have plenty for the Irem delivery, so the others would forgive her, particularly if she said that this meant the rest of them got a bonus taken from her and Sigil's shares. They could work out at what rate he should repay her later. She didn't need much money for herself, but she had causes and people to fund.

"I'm afraid coffee doesn't interest us either."

"Well, you can't expect us to carry livestock aboard. Perhaps some other time." She didn't like the idea and doubted the others would be terribly excited either. Animals simply made for awkward cargo. They had a ferret, the other survivor from the Dreaming Rose, and that was bad enough.

The priest walked up to her and placed his arm around across her shoulders. "Not exactly livestock, no. But that doesn't mean that your ship holds nothing that interests us. Stay docked here tonight, post no guards and ask no questions."

"Excuse me?" His intimacy was unwelcome and now he was getting cryptic. What could he be so sure they had on board and did not wish to be witnessed taking? Was this some kind of test of faith? She wasn't going along with this. Faith might be praised to high heavens, but good bookkeeping was necessary for survival.

But before she could articulate any of that, the priest pressed his index finger against her lips. "That's a question, but let me tell you this. Strange things happen at zee and zailors are often lost. We shall be quiet and it shall be painless. And after such a night, you will join us for breakfast and all questions shall be answered."

Her world ground to a halt. Davids stared blankly ahead at nothing. The place suddenly seemed very still indeed. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks and the distant chatter of her friends seemed like a far-off echo of reality. Her breathing became heavier and her breath frosted over in the cold air.

Surely that couldn't be what he meant? Sigil was just standing there, showing no reaction. But he must have heard? Then again, he had said he'd give everything and she supposed that he really meant it... As horrible is it was, the implication was there.

Davids elbowed the priest in the chest and struggled free. She staggered a few steps forward until she stood next to Sigil, then turned to face the priest again. "You want to eat us!" Her funny bone hurt from the blow, but the pain was almost welcome.

The priest clutched his chest. "I suppose that's an accusation rather than a question. But you have feasted of the Chapel's Bounty."

She had, yes. And now those exotic meats she had eaten had a source... A revulsion overtook her. She had been a cannibal. An unwitting one, but she had feasted on human flesh all the same. What to do?

Get away for a start. Davids seized Sigil's wrist and tugged. The first step was a stumble, then he followed her running. Just as well, she didn't want to literally drag him, but she would if she had to. She had mass and gravity on her side.

The slope was steep and the path slick with snow. A more rational part of her was screaming at her to slow down unless she wanted to break her neck and die on this candle haunted island. But fear and disgust kept her running until she slipped.

The next thing she knew she was lying face down in the snow. It was cold but not deep enough to really cushion the impact. A knocked over candle lay next to her, extinguished.

She forced herself to sit up to see if they were being followed. Apparently they weren't, so she allowed herself a moment of respite.

At least she hadn't brought Sigil down with her. Her right palm had been scraped open breaking her fall, so she must have let go of his wrist. He seemed to have stopped the moment she stopped pulling. She wished he'd say something.

Douglas and Wood were hurriedly walking towards them. Thank goodness for her friends. Wood squatted down next to her. "Are you all right?"

"No."

"Anything particularly painful?" Wood asked.

"It's not the fall." The landing was hard, but she didn't think that anything was broken.

"No, I'd think not. You were running like your life depended on it. What the blazes got into you?" Douglas asked.

"I'll tell you, but let's get back to the ship first. We need to leave." That and it would give her a little more time to think about how to break it to them, although she already knew that she wouldn't manage anything good. Perhaps because that would be impossible.

"You've definitely spooked me now," Douglas said, shaking his head. He knelt down next to Davids and grasped her right upper arm.

Wood then took her left. "Are you ready?"

Davids nodded and they hauled her to her feet. They brushed some snow off themselves, then started walking back to the ship. The two were ready to support her, but she didn't need it. The fall had been painful certainly, but she was able to walk.

After a few steps, Davids realised that Sigil wasn't following them and looked back. He was still standing where she had fallen, staring up at the chapel. She shouted, "Come on, Sigil! We're leaving." After a moment he followed obediently, so hopefully his behaviour could be attributed to shock.

Did she grab him and run because she feared that he would start negotiating with the priest when he should come aboard and whom he could take as his blood toll? Perhaps, but she wouldn't mention that to anyone. That was not only an unfair accusation, he was coming along without protest now after all, it was the kind of distrust that tore crews apart.

They arrived at the ship soon enough. The rest of the crew was already clustered on the pier. White spoke first, "Are we still going up there to eat?"

"No, never again," Davids said.

"Was Sigil's performance that bad?" Jones asked.

"No, it's not Sigil. It's that the priest is a cannibal." At least she'd said it.

Shepherd pulled a face in disgust and Jones muttered, "Oh, fuck."

White looked up at the chapel. "Does that mean that our previous meals have been..." He didn't finish the question, but there was no need for that.

"How would I know exactly what he served us? Probably, but I'm not going up to ask."

"Let's go." It was Shepherd who expressed the sentiment first.

Davids was glad to troop back on board with the others and they made ready to leave. She would report this to the admiralty, useless as they were.

O

In the beginning, there was nothing. Yet there was a point where nothingness acquired a substance of itself. The expanse was vast, darker than the Neath and silent. Every part of it was identical in its emptiness. There was no horizon and she didn't know if such a concept even made sense in this place.

None of this mattered. Knife in hand, Davids had a burning purpose, although she didn't know what it was. She walked onwards confidently and easily, despite the ground being covered with a shallow liquid, black as tar. It didn't actually seem to be wet. Her footsteps made no sound, but she left behind a trail of ripples.

Time was a strange creature in this realm and she didn't know how long she had been walking when Wood appeared before her. Even in this dark void, her features were perfectly visible. She didn't say anything, but no words were needed.

Davids raised her knife. In a single, almost graceful, motion, she slashed her across the throat. Wood fell without a cry. Droplets of blood hung in the air, defying gravity in their primal redness. Then they were gone.

Her gaze turned downward to her fallen comrade. Wood lay on her back, eyes wide open, but blank, staring upwards at nothing. Blood flowed freely from the wound. Davids knelt down next to her and touched Wood's wrist with her left hand. A steady pulse remained.

Carefully, Davids pressed the tip of the knife against Wood's collarbone. She stabbed downwards and pulled the blade through the ribcage. Neither flesh nor bone offered resistance.

She let go of the knife and it too was gone, for it was no longer needed. Davids placed her hands into the cut. The flesh was pleasantly warm in this cold place, although it only became clear in contrast that it had a temperature at all. She tore the chest open.

The prize was revealed, the heart lay bare. Davids ripped it out with both hands, ignoring Wood's quiet whimper. Wood was her friend, but what was friendship compared to this?

She could wait no longer. Performing a ritual she only half knew, she raised the heart to her lips and took the bite. A sharp pain, the taste of blood.

Now she was lying prone in a somewhat brighter shade of dark. A light weight pressed down on her. Was she to be eaten next? She'd not be willing victim. She pushed herself up with all her strength.

Her world exploded in pain as she bashed her head against the cabin ceiling. She cried out and sank back onto the bed. A dream. It was a dream.

The taste of blood was real though. She'd bitten her tongue, but compared to what she'd done to her head, the pain barely registered. Davids took a deep breath and tried to clear her thoughts, but lying there with a blooming headache that was easier said than done. She was still feeling somewhat sore from the fall too. But the worst of the pain faded quickly. When she felt up to moving again, Davids cautiously climbed down from her bunk and switched on the lights. Electric energy was beautiful.

Superstitiously, she looked at the bed beneath hers. Wood was curled up there, snoring.

Davids shook her head. Obviously she was, had she expected the nightmare to have any bearing on reality? No, dreams were a strange process, mixing experiences, fears, hopes and the imagination of the sleeper into hallucinations, absurd constructs that yet seemed unquestionably true until waking. This one had been altogether too vivid, but pleasant dreams were not to be expected the first time one slept after discovering that one had been a cannibal.

The thought that there might have been something more terrible about that dream was quickly pushed aside. Superstition thrived in the darkness, but dreams were dreams and that was that. Reciting the Internationale would help. Anyone who had slept through her howl of pain was unlikely to be woken by familiar, quietly spoken French.

Once she'd finished all six verses, she glanced at Wood again. At least she was sleeping soundly. As a whole, the crew seemed to be taking this better than she was. Good. Distraction led to mistakes and, while she tried to plan in a margin of error, the sea was unforgiving.

Shepherd was clearly distressed though. If everyone reacted like her, they'd be making terrible time. She was an aspiring artist who had gone to sea to try and find some depth to infuse into her works, so perhaps this was only to be expected. Davids liked her more for it anyway. It was nice not to be totally alone with her misery, even if shared unhappiness wasn't going to improve matters.

If only she could extend that sort of charity to Sigil. He was even more obviously unhappy than Shepherd. But she couldn't. It was probably unfair, but she couldn't shake the feeling that his misery was not actually shared at all, but rather due to the fact that he had not received an answer.

They had done nothing wrong at the Chapel of Lights. She had not known what she was eating, none of them had. Her mistake had merely been to trust a priest offering a meal. An obvious error in hindsight, but not something one could honestly have expected. There was no reason to feel bad about what had happened. It was not their fault that they had wound up in what would make a plot for a penny dreadful, albeit not a good one.

Sigil on the other hand had his hopes of recovering his memories robbed from him. She should feel sorry for him for that, even if it had been a false hope. After all, Davids could not imagine living without hers. That would be functionally the same as dying. What remained wouldn't be her.

Deciding that she'd had enough of these depressing thoughts, Davids started heading to the galley to make herself some coffee. She was feeling a bit hungry too. Hopefully, Sigil would have chosen some other place to mope, but the Red Herring was a small ship.

At least she would be in transcendent Irem in a few hours. It was a place of such beauty that dreams were soothed and time itself was easily forgotten. Irem would bring relief.

The past could not be changed. It was a taboo unknowingly trespassed. Disgusting as it was, she would have to live with it. Everyone aboard would have to.

O

Davids didn't like London. Up until this voyage, she'd have ranked it as the worst place in the Neath. Objectively, it was still more terrible than the Chapel of Lights. The lords of industry devoured people by the thousands, working them to death in their factories and then leaving them to die in the rookeries. And down here, death was not even the end of one's exploitation. The wealth of the capitalists was slick with the blood of the working class. To claim that they weren't cannibals merely because they didn't eat people was absurd.

But cruel absurdity was society's operating principle. Kill one and you were a murderer to be hung for the amusement of the public. Slaughter thousands and you were an accomplished gentleperson. But the Smiling Priest and his shadowy congregation were unimportant enough criminals that the law wouldn't mind acting against them. At least that's what Davids had thought when she went into the admiralty's office.

It seemed that the clerk begged to differ. "Are you absolutely certain that this is what he implied?" He was as neat as a pin and a total pinhead.

Had she just imagined it? She'd wondered that herself often enough, but then why hadn't Sigil corrected her? It would have been very much in his interest. Perhaps he was doubtful enough of his sanity to rely on her interpretation. But while it seemed probable that the priest was a murderer she had to try and do something about it. "Yes, I am. I even accused him of wanting to eat us and he did nothing to deny it."

The clerk dipped his pen into the ink pot. "In that case, I fear you must have fallen to female flights of fancy. Men of God do not do such things."

Davids clenched her fists. Female flights of fancy indeed! But a remark about how his stupidity was not based on his genitals would not help matters. "The ones in the Chapel of Lights do. Look, I'm not accusing the Bishop of Southwark. It's one group near Void's Approach. That part of the Unterzee is not exactly conductive to sanity."

"As a zee captain I suppose you know all about. But for the sake of the argument, let us briefly assume that your fantasies are true. The priest at the Chapel of Lights suggested that he would kill and eat one of your crew in exchange for some spiritual advice. Is that correct?"

Maybe they were getting somewhere despite the condescension, so she decided not to distract from the matter at hand by explaining that she wasn't really the captain. That would only weaken her position and direct unwelcome attention to herself. "Correct."

"But he did not actually take any of your crew?"

"No, we left immediately upon hearing his offer." Obviously.

"There you have it. He did not actually cannibalize anyone. No crime has been committed."

"Excuse me?" She realised that she was raising her voice, but he was taking the piss out of her now.

"No crime has been committed and I think that this topic has been exhausted. I would like to get back to serious work."

And she'd had enough. Davids slammed her fist onto the desk, knocking over the ink pot. "I'm not saying that one of my crew got eaten! I'm saying that the priest of the Chapel of Lights has eaten other people! Doing something about that would be serious work-"

A door at the back of the office opened and a tall man wearing dark spectacles and a dress uniform stepped out. "Is there a problem?" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an air of undeniable authority.

An insult died in her throat as Davids' angry bravado melted away in an instant. She made an effort to look straight at him. "Yes."

"Very well. Come into my office then and don't disturb all of Wolfstack." Not waiting for her reply, he turned on the spot and walked back into his office.

"You've gone and done it now. That's the admiral," the ink splattered clerk whispered. There was an unmistakable satisfaction in his voice.

Davids swallowed. Nothing for it. She edged past the clerk's desk and into the lion's den.

"Close the door and take a seat," was the first thing the admiral said when she stepped over the threshold.

Wishing that she was on the other side of it, she carefully closed the door. She sat down at the admiral's massive desk.

"Just to get the formalities aside, I'd appreciate it if you stated your name and vessel."

"Alexandra Davids of the Red Herring," she said and he wrote it down in shorthand.

"If I heard correctly, your issue is that you believe the priest of the Chapel of Lights is a cannibal."

"That's right, sir."

"Then the first action I suggest you take is to moderate your voice."

"I'm sorry, sir. The clerk wasn't taking my complaint seriously." She hated being polite to someone of the brass, but she didn't dare be rude.

"Then you will be pleased to hear that I do take it seriously."

"Thank you." That was unexpected.

The admiral stood up and walked over to a wall cabinet. He took out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. "Would you like a drink?"

Actually, she didn't. She just wanted out of the office. Drinking was something she did with friends and an admiral could never be a friend. Who knew what his true motives were? In vino veritas the saying went, so perhaps he was trying to exploit that. "Yes, please." Something had to be done about cannibal priests. He probably wasn't going to question her about her political leanings and even if, she could hold her drink well.

The admiral poured a little of the dark amber liquid into the glasses, then took his seat again. His eyes were hidden, but if anything, the dark spectacles only heightened the intensity of his gaze.

Admirals were definitely as bad as cannibals, but Davids steeled herself and started recounting her meeting with the priest again. He didn't interrupt her, but she noticed that he wasn't making any notes.

Once she had finished, he nodded. "Do take a drink, it's too good to go to waste." His expression was hard to read, but he seemed to look unhappy.

She raised the glass to her lips, paused a moment, then took a sip.

"Good, isn't it?"

She nodded. It was excellent stuff, probably the best alcohol she'd ever tasted. Somewhat sweet, with just the residue of the fungal taste. But drink lived by its company, so it was really worse than the cheap stuff she'd quaffed with Andy and their Edinburgh friends.

"Then you'll at least have had something positive out of this meeting."

For a moment she thought that she was going to choke. "Does that mean you don't believe my account? Is the evidence too thin?"

"I consider you a perfectly credible witness. The evidence would be a little weak on its own, but it corroborates other reports I have received."

Davids frowned. "Other reports?"

The admiral quickly confirmed her suspicion. "You see the problem then? This is not the first we have heard of this."

"And nothing is being done?" She supposed that was to be expected. All forces were needed to oppress the people, they wouldn't have anyone to spare to arrest a cannibal. And to be honest, it was quite far out.

"If I had my way, something would have been done long ago. I'd have sent the Bishop of Southwark along for good measure."

Davids felt like saying that the priest's possible heresies were pretty insignificant considering, even if misunderstanding communion was the source of the problem. It was the wrong company for that sort of talk though. If all she was going to get was excuses, she wanted him to hurry up and let her go. "And if I had mine, the same would happen, despite me being a mere sailor. If you can take no action, I do not wish to further presume upon your time." She stood up slowly. It was probably safe to do so.

"I am deeply sorry. The reason is simply that we have the greater good of London to consider."

"Of course." Couldn't he hurry up and dismiss her?

"The priest has some use you see, or at least that's what one of my colleagues tells me. I find it distasteful, but he is a valuable informant and reports to us on the kind of character he encounters."

"I suppose he encounters quite some characters indeed." Had she confided anything incriminating to the priest? No, her dislike of the clergy had probably protected her from that. She had confessed nothing more damning than a lack of religious zeal.

"Indeed he does. And needless to say, that information is confidential."

"Of course, sir." But why tell her in the first place? Was it an attempt to alleviate guilt? Perhaps he felt better, but it didn't improve her opinion in him in the least. She supposed that literal and figurative cannibals would stick together. And, sadly, she couldn't think of anyone who could properly utilise that information. Perhaps someone would still occur to her.

The admiral rose from his chair and held out his hand. "All the same, I am grateful for your report and you will receive due compensation for it. I wish you a good day."

She shook it. As expected, he had the firm grip of a true scoundrel. "It was a pleasure." A pleasure to leave, anyway.

Just as she laid her hand on the door latch, the admiral said, "A word of warning: Don't go around telling everyone about the priest's culinary tendencies."

Davids turned around. "Why not?"

The admiral smiled. "That question alone would tell me that you are a surfacer. In a sunlit port they would indeed take the information as a warning or as a sign that you are raving. But down here, things are different. Let me just say that many people would take it as a recommendation."

"Understood." Davids hated getting sensible advise from an admiral, but he was probably right.

O

When contemplating what provisions to buy for the next voyage, Davids decided to go easy on the meat. She'd put it to vote of course, but she didn't think anyone would feel like coming up with an alternative. It was irrational really. She didn't harbour that serious suspicions about the suppliers she frequented, but the associations were too strong for her to feel like she'd enjoy it, even considering the normal culinary delights of provender. If it weren't nigh impossible to get any variety in durable, affordable foodstuffs in the Neath she'd have cut it entirely. Jones' reports from Demeaux Island made it quite clear that fungus was to be consumed in moderation though. Damn, she missed the surface, but she'd been down too long to return.

Having done the inventory, Davids decided to head out into London and do her part in commission hunting. After a moment's thought she decided to try her luck in Veilgarden. As London went, it was a nice enough place and there was a fair chance she'd meet some scandal haunted character seeking urgent passage to Venderbight. Maybe she could get something nice to eat while she was at it. Roasted chestnuts would be just the ticket, but were perhaps a little pricey.

Besides, the real alternative was searching in Wolfstack and she wasn't feeling too happy about that at the moment. Last night's trip to the pub had revealed that tensions were high, although she'd be safe enough. Many dockworkers were blaming the clay men for their miserable conditions. They had indulged her arguments that the golems were not the cause, she'd been buying the round after all, but she doubted she'd made any impression. Perhaps if she had made the point that their real enemy was a common one more forcefully... But chances were that there was a police spy among the pub-goers, so it was probably for the best. She'd just have preferred a more pleasant evening after the ordeal at the admiralty. The food hadn't been any good either, but at least she'd done her duty in keeping up good relations with the dockers.

Walking across the deck, she saw Sigil standing on the pier, looking miserable as usual. She gave him a shout and he waved back. Davids waited for a moment, but as he didn't step onto the gangway, she walked down to him. "Back from shore leave already?"

Sigil shook his head. "Actually, I never left. I really need to talk to you."

"Sure. What about?" This was somewhat odd. They were all on good terms, but in her experience, sailors tended to stay away from each other when in London, except when planning the next voyage. Spending months with the same company in close quarters with a repeat of the experience to look forward to did that to you.

"I don't want to hold you up," Sigil said, looking at his feet. He looked more haggard than usual, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

"We could talk while we walk," she said, setting off towards Veilgarden at a leisurely pace. "So what's on your heart?"

He swallowed noticeably. "I'd like to return to the chapel."

Oh no. Was the reason he wanted to talk to her now because he didn't want the rest of the crew to hear? "I don't think that's a good idea." Should she point out again that he was probably just suffering from irrigo exposure?

Sigil gave a weak smile. "No one needs to get eaten, he only said he needed fresh food. We could buy livestock and-"

"I guess you could. Do that if you want. Propose that plan at council, but you won't get my vote and I don't imagine you'll get anyone else's either." Being matter of fact was probably for the best.

Sigil didn't answer, but kept walking on beside her, spreading an aura of glumness. It matched the London atmosphere, despite London being much brighter than the sea. Perhaps this was something to like about the city, but the light was wrong. There were candles here too, but she needed the sun.

Davids tried to ignore him, instead focusing on the fact that Londoners had some cheek to complain about the Chelonate's smell. The reek of rotting flesh might have been more primally disgusting, but at least it didn't burn on the way down like the smog did. It was perhaps hypocritical to complain, as the Red Herring's engine added to the pollution, but it could never match the intensity of the factories' acrid output, the cheap candles and the thousands of coal fires warming the homes of the wealthier classes. And to make matters worse, there was no proper weather to wash it away. She'd have never imagined that she'd miss the heavy rains. Conventional wisdom held that hell was quite nearby, but she knew better. They were already there.

"Please," Sigil suddenly said, jolting her out of her thoughts.

She tried to keep a light, conversational tone. It was difficult. "How do you know the priest will be of any help at all? Sure, he claimed to know, but all priests like to make fantastic and insubstantial claims."

"You wouldn't understand, but he will. I felt it." Sincerity, thy name is Sigil. His tone and expression suggested the kind of irrational fervour that there was little point arguing with.

It didn't mean she could indulge him. "I can't help you. Make a plan, present it at council. I'm no autocrat, if it somehow passes, I will abide." This was true.

"It won't pass without your support." This was also likely true.

"Probably, but I don't think it would pass with my approval either." This was quite possibly false. It would not be the first time she had been overruled, the most notable incident being when naming the Red Herring, but normally the crew voted for her suggestions. Would they agree to go back to the chapel if she supported it? With a yea from Sigil, she'd only have to sway two out of the remaining five for the majority. But that number game was a moot point, she didn't want to go. Calling upon the council would dilute the blame of turning Sigil down though. "I'm the secretary, not a captain."

"I need to discover what happened to my memories," Sigil said.

Davids stopped. She made a point of looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry about your memories, but no." Feeling a need to strengthen her argument, she continued, "I'm not convinced he'd even accept livestock."

"You might be right." He'd seen sense! She was about to praise him for it when he continued. "I don't like this either, but surely we can find someone disposable."

How had she given the impression that she could possibly approve of such a plan? There were people who she felt the world would be better for their irreversible removal, but they were people like the industrialists and the Smiling Priest himself. But even so, those were not the ends she wished for them. Besides, such people were well guarded, he probably meant drunks, petty criminals, the destitute.

Sigil took a step backwards, raising his arms defensively. Her posture must have betrayed her desire to strike him. It took all her willpower not to, but she was surprised at how calm her response was. "Desperate or not, sending some poor sap to get eaten is despicable." The first item on the council would be a motion if Sigil should remain part of the crew, no matter how useful it was to have a proper navigator.

"But this sigil is devouring me! It's growing and I'm forgetting! Look," he said, rubbing his chin, "when I stood before the mirror this morning, I'd forgotten how to shave!" His beard did look more unkempt than usual, now that he mentioned it.

"That's bad, but it doesn't justify-"

"How dare you give me your smug judgement? You go on and on about your ideals, but none of it's real. I'm dying and you don't care!"

She wasn't going to have a dissection of her personality and ideology. Certainly not on the London streets. "Maybe your tattoo is eating you because you are letting it define you? Named yourself after it, for goodness sake!" Davids took a step towards him. "Forget priests, if your tattoo's the problem, get a tattoo artist! There's a famous one right here in London. Claire's or something. They won't want payment in blood!"

"You think Clathermont's will be able to help me? The sigil is more than mere ink! Haven't you noticed that it's growing all the time?"

Now he was just messing with her. "Of course it's growing! You're adding to it, aren't you? I bet you pay for some new squiggles whenever we're here! Perhaps you're right, you don't need a tattoo artist, you need a doctor, you-"

"Idiot. Neither Clathermont's nor the Beth will be able to help me."

"And neither will I."

"Then forget it. I'll find a captain who cares more about the lives of their crew than the nebulous proletariat." He spat in her face. It hit her left cheek, just under the eye. Stunned, she let him turn around and start walking away. The rift between them was already insurmountable and it was widening with every step he took.

Davids stood there watching for a while, then yelled after him, "Just get out of my sight! Run off and get another squiggle for your tattoo!" He was entitled to a final pension payout, but if he was going to walk off without it, she wasn't going to remind him. Not in these circumstances.

As glad as she was to be rid of him, she was certain that he'd be able to find a captain willing to pay someone else's pound of flesh to possibly discover the secrets that might lie in his past. It probably wouldn't even be particularly difficult. There was nothing she could do to stop him, short of committing her very own murder, right there in Wolfstack Docks and making sure that it stuck. She wouldn't eat him, but that wouldn't actually improve matters. It would only be more wasteful.

Even that possibility vanished soon enough. Sigil walked round a corner and out of sight. She doubted that she would ever see him again.

Despite herself, she felt relieved. Davids unclenched her fists and wiped away the spittle. Then, with Sigil gone, she realised that she was standing perhaps twenty metres from where Andy had been gutted by a police bayonet all these years ago. He'd recovered, but it had damned them into this gloomy realm.

Not wanting to dwell on that memory, she tried to work out something that could be done about Sigil's plan. Should she try to put aside her hatred of the police for a moment and ask for their help? No, there was no point to that. In the unlikely case that they could be bothered, they might well succeed in finding him in time, he had a prominent and distinctive tattoo after all. But then Sigil would just accuse her of being a revolutionary. She'd hang and he'd walk free.

What about suggesting to her friends that they could attempt to pre-empt him so that even if he arrived on that forsaken isle with a sacrificial victim, there would be no priest to do the rites?

But the Chapel of Lights was a long way out and they'd just lost their navigator. Sailing there without being able to tie it into some profitable endeavour was also not something they could just afford. It wouldn't completely bankrupt them, but it would remove their cushion. There'd be no wages or pension payments out of it either. And that was before even considering the specifics of getting rid of the priest.

Davids didn't think she'd be able to convince the crew. She was the secretary, not a dictator. And, to be honest, she didn't think that half-baked plan would even get her vote.


	2. Destruction

The entire crew huddled in the engine room for warmth. It had been one year, five months and ten days since they had last been at the Avid Horizon, and it was even colder than Davids remembered it.

Jones blew into her hands. "What's taking her? Dropping a confession should be a five minute affair. Less! We've been here for half a fucking hour!"

"I told her that she should write the confession in advance, so that we could avoid this." Wood pulled her jacket tighter.

"I'm pretty sure she did. She was writing something in the galley anyway," White said.

Davids rearranged her scarf once more, tucking the ends under her jumper. "Well, I'm going out to check." Someone had to. And the relief on her friends' faces that someone other than them would be the volunteer almost made up for the fact that she'd have to step out into the cold.

"You'll find her frozen corpse by now, likely as not," Douglas said as she closed the engine room door behind her. Cheerful.

She walked up the steps leading to the deck. Steeling herself for another drop of temperature, she opened the door and stepped out. The fierce wind slammed the door shut behind her.

Davids looked around, the wind stinging her eyes, trying to spot their passenger. By the standards of the Neath, the Avid Horizon was a bright place. The icy surfaces seemed to glow with a frosty radiance, although she was certain that it was actually reflections of the ship's lights. The two colossal statues were not to her liking. The thought of workers, clay men probably, having to carve them in this blizzard was beyond horrible. Otherwise, the place was beautiful. Just not suitable for humans.

The gate in particular was hard to look away from. It seemed that the very air was frozen there, creating a barrier between the world and what seemed to be the abyss beyond the stars. But she was here to find the passenger, not to gaze out at what lay beyond. It was freezing and she was starting to sound mystical.

Then she spotted her. Passenger Pilgrim was standing some distance away from the ship, where the icy harbour gave way to the open sea. Davids yelled, "Could you hurry? We're all freezing here!" But the winds tore her words to shreds. Pilgrim gave no sign of having heard, or even noticed, Davids. Well, she'd have to go and shout into her ear then. Davids walked the distance warily. Her hobnail boots gave her a good grip, but the ground was slippery and the wind came in frigid blasts from all conceivable directions.

Finally she found herself next to Pilgrim. "Hurry up unless you want to freeze to death!"

Pilgrim said something, but it was far too quiet to pick up over the winds. She was still clutching an envelope, presumably containing her confession. Perhaps she didn't know where to put it. And she wasn't wearing gloves! Her fingers already looked frostbitten.

"There are some ice spires over there that look like they might have nooks safe from the wind! Just dump it there! And go back inside!" She laid her hand on Pilgrim's shoulder.

Pilgrim spoke again, no louder than before, but there was a brief lull in the wind. "It's not forgiveness, is it?"

The wind picked up again, forcing Davids to shout. "Don't be daft, of course not!" How anyone could think the crown could grant forgiveness was beyond her. "It's a formality for the admiralty! Just do it so we can go!" And what a pointless formality it was too! At least the pay was good.

Pilgrim let go of the envelope. The bitter wind seized it and carried it upwards, like an overgrown snowflake.

Davids instinctively reached to grab it, her stiff fingers crumpling the paper. "If you've changed your mind, that's fine!" But before she could get to the part about there being no rebates just because she decided not to deliver the confession, she realised that Pilgrim had vanished. Bewildered, she looked around. This was just not funny.

Someone was standing on the deck, a silhouette against the lights. But surely Pilgrim couldn't have crossed the distance so quickly? When the figure moved, it had Douglas' gait. He picked up the boathook and started walking towards her in a cautious, but urgent manner.

Davids realised what had happened. "She jumped?" Her throat felt hoarse. She'd been distracted by the envelope and the battering gale, but he'd have seen it.

"Yes!"

Stuffing the envelope into her coat pocket, she looked down at the waters below. They seemed far too still for the howling winds. Only small waves lapping at the icy shores distorted the reflections of the false stars. Pilgrim was nowhere to be seen.

Douglas lowered the hook into the water. "Got to try!"

Indeed, one had to try. She knew many who had gone beneath the dark water and there had been no one willing and able to help them. Pilgrim probably wouldn't be alive if they managed to drag her out, but death was less than permanent in the Neath. Andy had recovered from having his guts spilled on the London cobblestones, that was why she was here rather than in France or back in Scotland. And now he was truly dead all the same. Death did tend to be more final out at sea.

"Caught something!" Douglas yelled. Davids grabbed the pole and together they heaved. The water on the wood froze as they pulled it out of the sea. Their prize was a skull, exactly what they needed. It seemed deformed, but perhaps it was just that her eyes were watering in the icy wind. The winds tore it off the pole and tossed it back into the ocean, sparing them the bother.

Then Davids took her turn at combing the dark waters. Every time they dredged up and cast back more junk, they changed places, allowing the other to give their hands some respite in their pockets.

After a while, their absence warranted investigation in itself. "What the hell are you doing? Where's the passenger?" Jones yelled as she stomped towards them.

"Guess who we're fishing for?" Davids shouted back.

"Fuck!" Jones grabbed the pole from Douglas' hands. She swept it through the water like a weapon. The cold hadn't robbed the her of her energy yet.

Davids crossed her arms across her chest, hoping to get a bit warmer. She quickly thought better of it and stuck her hands back into her pockets. The woollen gloves were not nearly thick enough.

Jones had no interest in yielding the pole to anyone else as she stabbed at the dark water. But even this aggressive approach didn't seem to be achieving anything beyond fishing out more sea-wrack. All the debris of the North seemed to wash up here. This was a place where things came to an end.

And Davids reached a decision. Not a nice one, but it was a rational one. "She jumped? Didn't fall or slip?" she yelled at Douglas, just to make sure. Not that it would necessarily make any difference. It was too cold out here. They had made an effort.

"Definitely jumped!" That was good, it lessened their obligations. They had charged her for safe passage, but it had been her own choice that had doomed her.

"Then let's leave!" Davids had no desire to join her in death.

Douglas posture sagged slightly. He seemed relieved that he hadn't had to suggest it. Jones swore, not loud enough to be heard over the winds, but in situations like this, profanities were her favoured way of expressing herself.

The three of them marched back to the relative warmth of the ship. The rest of the crew got a brief explanation that their passenger wasn't coming back, then they lifted anchor. As they steamed away from the Avid Horizon, Davids was uncomfortably aware that Pilgrim's corpse lay beneath them.

O

Davids retired to the galley, draping her coat over the back of her chair. The tea Mayweather had made was most welcome. It was rather weak, but it was properly boiling and she was mostly grateful for the warmth. She'd have been too exhausted to make some herself. Clutching the mug with both hands, she took small sips. The heat burned her fingers, but she didn't care, at least they still had sensation. The cold had yet to leave her bones.

She just wanted to put it behind her, but she still had Pilgrim's confession in her coat's pocket. Davids pulled it out and placed the crumpled envelope on the table in front of her. What to do with it? The most proper course of action would be to return to the Avid Horizon and bury it in the snow, but the prospect was utterly unappealing. Throw it overboard so that it might reunite with its author in the depths? That sounded better, but she wanted to read it first, like one wanted to pick at a scab.

She pulled out her penknife and hesitated. She had no real right to its contents. But having frozen for Pilgrim, surely she deserved to know what had driven her to jump into the icy water? If the answer lay anywhere, it was inside this envelope.

That was all very well and good, but it was not really sufficient. She held the letter against the light, but quickly put it down again. Whether she read it by opening the envelope or by illuminating the paper was ethically identical, the latter was merely more likely to give her eye strain. She pulled a biscuit out of the box and nibbled it while she thought.

It would probably be best just to forget about the envelope. She could read something of their own instead or do a tangram. Both of those would likely be more enjoyable. But she'd have to fetch those things and she couldn't be bothered to get up.

Then she found an argument to sooth her conscience. The confession was meant for the admiralty, so it was not actually private correspondence. As a citizen, that surely gave her a right to see what was inside. She could open it without qualms.

"Confession of Frances Green"

Assumed names were common enough, particularly the Adjective Noun type that everyone and their Quirky Pet seemed to be adopting down here, so bloody keen to copy the tyrant Victoria. Besides, the Scarlet Pilgrim had been too portentous to be true. It was the second line where the trouble really began.

"I was the first mate on the Caligo-class merchant cruiser The Midnight under the authority of Captain Wendy Nichols."

After reading those names, nothing the confession contained would surprise her. The average captain was self-centred, greedy and vainglorious, Nichols was worse. She had once cut off a docker's nose and ears just to watch her bleed. Rumours spoke of even worse deeds. If you had to lay anchor in the same port as The Midnight, you wanted to dock as far away as possible, which always turned out to be a much sought location. Things had been very quiet around that ship recently though. Hopefully it was resting on the sea floor with Nichols' corpse aboard.

"Nichols is a seeker of forbidden knowledge on a subject that is beyond my understanding. She thought that the priest with the red smile at the Chapel of Lights could aid her on her quest. Of course, the priest was more interested in talking over dinner. As the petitioners, it was only polite that we provided the meal – or at least the ingredients.

"The first time it was Abigail Blackmore, then Estelle Young, Edward Jarvis, Irene North, Ceila Scrivener, Curtis Lawford, and a few more zailors whose names I can't remember. Not people of any importance. Most were taken aboard so we would have meat to offer, although they didn't know that when they signed on.

"When the time came, some begged and cried, some fought, some were stoic, some simply were glad to no longer have to deal with Wendy Nichols. The outcome was the same. I helped drag them off the ship and butcher them.

"Once the table was set, the priest talked with Nichols about seeking, but the talk was just words. The food was what was important. It was always a most delicious meal. My writing cannot hope to describe the sensation, but Shakespeare himself would falter.

"Ever since I first ate from the Chapel's bounty, I have never felt sated except when I sat at that table. Nichols has left to fulfil her greatest ambition, abandoning me at Kingeater Castle for a laugh, leaving me to be haunted by my hunger.

"Maybe seeking forgiveness will allow me to put this redness behind me and be full once again.

"Frances Green" A spiky signature marked the end of that tale.

Davids shivered, but it was probably just the cold. She could just imagine respectable voices telling her that this was exactly what was to be expected when ferrying people to confess at the Avid Horizon, but she was sure that wasn't true. She'd been hoping that they'd been escorting someone whose "crime" was more along the lines of mooning Victoria. After all, legality and morality were separate things. Fleeing an unjust law was why she and Andy came down here in the first place.

No matter what, she was glad to have Green off the ship, even if it was in a rather distressing manner. There was no compassion for the victims in that letter at all, it was only about her dietary unhappiness. It was lucky that she hadn't tried to sate her hunger on one of them.

As for any desperate hunger... Davids looked at the box of biscuits. No, she hadn't experienced any such thing, surely... Perhaps she sometimes felt a little peckish for no good reason, but that was hardly something to remark upon. While she had been gaining weight, that was simply because she now had enough to eat, a luxury she'd not had in Edinburgh's factories, as a Wolfstack docker or during her stints on various ships. They had not as a whole taken to consuming more compared to when she first wrote up the Red Herring's charter, she kept the records and would have noticed such a thing. Green's experience must have been caused by superstition and repressed guilt, nothing more.

Polite society held cannibalism as a transgression of a sacred taboo, but the evil lay in the murder, not the meat. Any reasonable person could see that.

And yet, Davids knew that she too was guilty. Her knowledge about what was happening at the chapel made her complicit in the further murders there. She should have pretended to agree with the priest's suggestion, but set an ambush instead. But that chance had passed.

Davids folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope. Now what? Take it to the admiralty and try again? It was strong evidence against the Chapel and Nichols as a bonus. She looked at the writing on the outside of the slit envelope. It would be easy enough to forge and Green had used their stationary. No one would know that she had already read it.

But would a second try help? They had already told her that they would take no action against the priest. Why would that change just because she brought the confession of a dead woman? And it was deeply unlikely that she would be the first person who brought evidence against Nichols.

No faith could be placed in gods, kings or masters. If she wanted the priest stopped, her own actions were required. The princes of industry had more blood on their hands, but unlike them, he was not beyond her reach and no other would immediately take his place.

They were in these waters now, so cost could no longer excuse hesitation. She couldn't sooth her consciousness by saying it was too expensive, that she'd do more good by giving away her personal profits to aid London's downtrodden. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that it was the first time they were here since that ghoulish discovery. Although this place was so very out of the way and they now lacked a proper navigator, she doubted it. Besides Green's contract being lucrative, having a passenger on board meant that confronting the priest was out of the question. But now their passenger was gone, consumed by the icy waves...

Only the crew were aboard now and they were her trusted comrades. It was almost the same people as the last time they docked at the chapel. Knowing the sorry story from the beginning, they would aid her.

Sigil was gone of course. Shepard had found the depths she sought, amazingly even the ones she had been hoping to find rather than the ones Davids had feared she would. She had joined London's legion of struggling artists. Which was more than could be said for Carey. The later replacements had been luckier. Mayweather and Bruckner would need the situation explained, but they would agree that something needed to be done.

Davids left the galley to call the council. The vote would surely be hers.

O

There was a reason why they usually did this while in a harbour. Organising a council at sea was tricky. Everyone had the right to hear all the arguments, but someone had to pilot the ship and someone had to tend the engine.

However, Jones was not interested in leaving the engine room. "I don't give a damn what you do. I froze my arse off out there because someone decided to take a fucking bath. Now God himself can't budge me till we reach warmer parts!" That simplified matters.

The rest of them crowded into the wheelhouse to hold council. Davids explained the situation for the new crew members.

"I'm on a ship with cannibals?" Mayweather asked. Perhaps she shouldn't have told the girl, but if she wanted to leave after this, she could do so at the next safe port.

"Technically, yes," Wood said with a shrug.

Davids didn't want to debate exactly how cannibalistic they had been. Their own eating wasn't actually the problem. "But like I said, it's not our fault. How could we have known? Anyway, we want to rid the world of that cannibal priest! This is the moment to do so! It's only a slight detour!" It wasn't precisely a stirring speech.

Wood scowled. "And how precisely do you plan to get rid of him?" An awkward question. Davids wasn't quite there yet herself.

"I really don't want to kill anybody," White said.

"No matter how you vote, I propose that everyone should have it on their own conscience whether they step ashore at the chapel or not."

White nodded, not taking his hands off the steering wheel.

"I hope we can capture him alive actually. We just need to take him out of circulation."

Douglas gave a half laugh. "And we'll keep him in the hold indefinitely? A fine passenger he'll make!"

"We'll drop him off at Wisdom." It surprised her as the words passed her lips, but it all worked out. They didn't have any proper holding facilities, but the journey would last less than a week, they could keep the priest in check for that long. Wisdom would ask no questions about a new prisoner, perhaps they'd even receive payment. She'd seen as much while sailing on another ship. Even if they didn't, Green had paid enough that the voyage would be profitable anyway. Financing the removal of the cannibal priest was much closer to redemption than writing a letter to the admiralty. As for supplies, they would be able to restock in Khan's Shadow. She had contacts there who would help her get reasonably priced goods.

There was only one snag in the plan. Imprisonment at Wisdom was unlikely to be preferable to death. Not from her vantage point at any rate. But at least she wouldn't have to kill him. And as the saying went, there was always time to die later.

"I don't like the idea of having someone like that aboard," Mayweather said. "Being around people who are tainted unwittingly is bad enough, but..."

"It won't be long and we'll have him trussed up." Davids briefly considered suggesting that if Mayweather didn't want him aboard, she was welcome to kill him herself, but decided against it. The girl was sixteen, too young to be here really. If it weren't for her wanting to escape a betrothal, she wouldn't have let her aboard, although she'd liked the thought of one of the moneyed classes doing some honest work. Davids also owed Mayweather's aunt a debt, a punishment or both. But the girl was certainly too young for bloodshed. Besides, Davids didn't particularly want to bring up that she'd be fine with someone else killing the priest, just as long as it wasn't her who did the deed. That was not morality.

Instead, Davids asked if there were any questions. There was a general shaking of heads and mumbles of noes.

"Then let's vote." Briskness was in order. "It's an aye from me, of course."

"Yes, sure." Wood was dependable.

"Same from me." As was Douglas.

"Yeah, as long as I can stay aboard." White's vote made the majority and he turned the wheel slightly port, setting course for the Chapel of Lights.

"Yes, I'll come." Bruckner's English was pretty good by now. It was improving far faster than her Lingvo Internacia. Probably because he had people to practise with.

Mayweather looked at the floor. "I guess it doesn't matter what I say now. And cannibals ought to be dealt with. I'll stay aboard though."

Perfect. Jones had abstained by staying in the engine room and Mayweather's vote was really more a "Maybe" than a "Yes", but the result was practically unanimous. Douglas, Wood, Bruckner and herself would fetch the priest. The others would stay behind, guarding the ship.

Davids was about to thank everyone for agreeing when a false star flared. They all looked up. For a second, it was brilliantly bright. Then it failed, extinguishing totally, leaving them staring at a dead spot on the cavern roof. The engine stirring up the dark water was the only sound to be heard.

Eventually, White said what Davids feared most of them were thinking, "That's a bad sign."

She held fast. "A coincidence. It's not the first time we've seen something like this."

"I remember that. We were attacked no two hours later."

"Yes, but we were in the Corsair's Forest! And we got away!"

"After throwing supplies into the zee to distract the pirates," Douglas said. So he was still annoyed about that. He should have said that the crate they'd put on deck for that purpose contained his sweets.

"We were still attacked. And I saw this happen once before that too, when I was serving on the Bountiful. I'd rather not talk about what happened then." White swallowed. "I think it's a warning." There was a general murmur of agreement, although Wood wasn't saying anything.

"Oh, away with all your superstitions!" Davids threw up her hands. "If the 'gods of the sea' wanted to tell us something, they should do it more clearly!" Utter nonsense, figments of the imagination of scared humans trying to understand this sunless ocean.

"Seemed pretty clear to me." Of course, White worshipped Salt. People held beliefs down here that they would immediately recognise as ridiculous in the light of day. Imagination took over where the senses failed.

"I can't believe you've survived so long down here!" Douglas said.

"But look, I have!"

Douglas tried to smile. "A coincidence, I fear."

Davids swallowed hard. She probably already knew the answer. "Are you going to help me fetch the priest?"

He shifted his weight. "Look, I think you're just fine as a secretary, but... what you put off as superstition is real down here as often as not."

"So that's a no?"

"I'll be staying on board."

That hurt. He came from Glasgow, but he was a fellow Scot. But it was the terms of the vote. Then Bruckner and Wood would accompany her. But a quick glance at Bruckner made her suspect that he too was shaken by the failed star. Asking only confirmed it. That left Wood. "I can count on you though?"

"Sorry, but no."

"Why not? You're a practical person, surely you're not placing faith in signs?"

"No, I'm not concerned about what happened with that false star. It was weird, sure, but so what?"

"Then what's up?"

"Isn't it obvious? Your original plan was risky enough, but it being just the two of us moves it from foolhardy to suicidal. See some sense!"

"What if I get Jones to come?"

Wood hesitated for a moment. "If she comes, then yes."

Davids didn't reply and instead headed to the engine room. But she had barely begun to explain why she'd really appreciate her support when Jones snapped, "What part of 'not budging till it's warmer' did you fail to understand?"

She hadn't even mentioned that some strangeness concerning a false star was the reason the others were spooked. "I understood, I just hoped. But if that's your decision-"

"It is."

"Then that is your decision." Davids closed the engine room door behind her and wearily climbed the stairs back up to the wheelhouse. She shook her head in response to Wood's glance, then addressed White and Mayweather. "I don't suppose either of you would like to come ashore after all?" It was not very likely, but there was no harm in asking.

Mayweather said "no" immediately, White just shook his head.

Davids looked up at the cavern roof. There were still plenty of false stars up there, shining away unperturbed. A more irrational part of her felt angry at them. They didn't provide proper light, moved too much to be useful for navigation and were an ever popular source of superstition. But then, none of those things had any reason to concern whatever the false stars were. And she supposed that it would be an even more desolate place without them. "I guess it's just me then."

"Don't be daft!" Douglas said.

"So you'll accompany me?" Perhaps she'd get her support after all.

"No."

"Well, unless someone proposes a counter-motion, we are heading for the Chapel of Lights. So who wants to say that we should just leave the priest to it?" The prospect of setting foot on that candle haunted island alone... Hopefully, if they would not stand by her, someone would at least absolve her. She could not come so near and yet let the priest continue his cannibalistic rites, but she could abide by any decision reached. Let someone else shoulder the blame for passing the opportunity by. If one of them would just put in the proposition of changing course, she wouldn't vote for it, but she would welcome it.

But none of them did.

White cursed. "You are utterly mad, but have it your way then."

O

The journey to the chapel lasted another five hours.

They set aside a small place in the hold for their prospective captive, taking apart two empty supply crates to build a makeshift prison. Even after putting a blanket inside it looked like a miserable hole. Nothing to be done about it. Perhaps it would at least make Wisdom seem cheerful by comparison, but she knew that was a lie. There just wasn't the infrastructure for a good solution.

Bruckner helped Davids assemble the rifle. He was not terribly familiar with the model, but he'd deserted from the Imperial German Army, so he had some general knowledge. It was an ancient thing, single shot and muzzle loading. Weaponry was not one of their priorities. Too late to change that now. With some luck she wouldn't need to actually use it. For backup, she stuck a long knife into her belt. If only her comrades would back her up instead!

There was not much more preparing to do, although Davids wished there was. After doing a few calculations to confirm that at least the general logistics of her plan would work out, she was left to pace the deck, questioning her decision and trying to recall the details of the place as they came closer and closer to that candle lit island.

Finally the Red Herring drew up alongside the wooden pier and the gangplank was laid out. Bruckner took up his position as guard. Davids picked up her rifle. Her hands were so sweaty that she wasn't even going to bother with gloves. Compared to the Avid Horizon it was downright balmy anyway.

It was time, but she hesitated and looked up towards the chapel. It was a large building, the only one on the island. There were many rooms and candles burned behind all the windows, giving her no clue where the priest might be. If only he had again come out to greet them, things would be much simpler. The bells had not tolled as they approached though, so perhaps they hadn't even been seen yet.

Wood walked up to Davids and placed her hand on her shoulder. "You know, you don't have to do this."

"We've already come."

"We could just leave again. It wasn't the most pleasant detour, but I don't think anyone here would hold it against you if you reconsidered."

"I would though." Davids swallowed and set off down the gangplank before she could be talked out of it.

The path seemed very long despite the fact that it couldn't have been more than three-hundred metres for all its meandering. She wanted to run to reduce the time she had to spend on it, but remembered what had happened last time. She hadn't even been awkwardly carrying a long gun then.

Besides, she wanted to avoid drawing attention to herself. Singing was similarly out of the question. Needing something to keep herself together, she settled for mouthing the Internationale instead. It helped, but only a little. This was far from the final struggle, but her comrades were rallying on the boat, not with her.

Andy would not have abandoned her like this. But he was dead. Eaten, just like she might end up. She supposed she should appreciate the symmetry while she was alive to do so. But even as she despised the priest, she couldn't hate Andy's killer. The bound shark was a tormented beast and her heart went out to all those who were in chains. Perhaps she could dislike Captain Mayweather who had chosen to fight the creature in the name of science. But she had not protested at the time, although it probably wouldn't have done any good. As the shark could not be freed, she had welcomed the idea of ending its misery. Besides, that captain was also no longer living.

With his death, Andy had saved her, in a sense. Having been granted leave to mourn and collect herself, she had not been on the Dreaming Rose when it sank. Everyone aboard that ship was dead. And she had profited handsomely from that coincidence.

Davids shivered. The dead were gone and yet they were everywhere. The candles gave her an army of shadows, but she was alone. She kicked a yellow candle over so that it fizzled out in the snow.

By the time she reached the first repetition of verse four, the path evened out and she was in front of the chapel. The heavy double doors stood ajar. Not quite sure what to make of it, Davids peered inside. Besides the blazing congregation of candles, the place seemed empty.

She stuck her foot between the doors and pushed the right one a bit outwards, then squeezed through. The rifle's barrel knocked against the other door. She hastily pulled it up. If it misfired, she didn't want it pointing at her feet. A harmless misfire wouldn't be unwelcome though. Reloading would take a minute or more and the alarm would have been raised, leaving her free to retreat to the Red Herring with the honest claim that she had tried. But as the seconds passed it became increasingly clear that that wasn't going to happen.

Nothing for it. She stepped fully into the chapel. At least the place truly was empty, there wasn't an ambush waiting just behind the door. As usual for churches, it seemed colder inside. The multitude of candles flickered in the draught. But she was not going to close the half open door behind her.

Davids walked down the aisle, past the wooden pews, trying to keep her breathing calm and controlled. There was another door behind the altar. It proved to be unlocked.

The door opened towards her. Behind it lay a two storey hall. While the chapel was austere, starkly cut stone and stained glass windows, this place was opulent. Numerous large mirrors multiplied the ever present candles. Dark polished wood and gleaming metal rounded out the impression of splendour. She'd been here before, but now the meaning of the red carpets and matching wallpaper was clear. Sadly, there didn't seem to be anything small, valuable and easy to sell lying about to be pinched.

Now as then, it all struck her as more than a bit of a fire hazard. Perhaps she should try burning the priest out instead. But no, starting an inferno was tricky business and things couldn't actually be as flammable as they looked. Otherwise, the whole place ought to have burned down a long time ago.

Again, there was no one to be seen. Might the priest have snuffed it on his own accord? But that could only be wishful thinking. Someone was keeping the candles alight.

She stepped through the doorway, again leaving the door open. The unobstructed path to the outside world had to be preserved.

The way onwards was less clear. There were five closed doors on the ground floor and four more on the upper level. Of those, the second from the stairs stood open, so she decided to start there. Being upstairs would make escape harder, but depending on what opposition she would meet, it might be impossible anyway.

Climbing up the stairs, Davids placed her left hand on the bannister to steady herself, but quickly decided it would be better to steady her gun. One of the steps was bound to creak horribly, but she reached the top without making a noise. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps as she edged towards the open door. Just before she reached it, she stopped to ready her rifle, bracing it against her shoulder, left hand holding the barrel, right hand so that she could pull the trigger, approximately like Bruckner had shown her. Hopefully it wouldn't be necessary.

Davids took one last step and looked through the doorway. The priest in the red cassock was there, at the far side of the room, his back turned to her. He was looking out of the window, although "out of" was perhaps the wrong term. It was dark outside and bright inside, so really he was gazing at his reflection – and at hers. "Ah, Davids. I have been awaiting you."

If he'd actually been, he'd have locked the door or something. She pointed the gun at him. "Then you'll know what to expect. Hands up."

He made no effort to comply. "Yes, I know what to expect. A dedicated servant died in an apt way so close to here, how could I not know?" He turned to face her. "But you seem to remain ignorant." If only he'd stop smiling!

"I said, 'Hands up.'" He might have wild words, but she had a weapon, pointed at him with shaking hands.

"Manners." His arms remained relaxed by his sides as he took a step forwards. There was about five metres between them, but that could be crossed in no time at all.

"Please put your hands up!"

"A little politeness goes a long way." He raised his arms for a moment, mocking her. But he didn't stop.

"And stop! Please!"

The priest did not deign to answer that. He kept walking towards her at a horribly slow pace.

Her finger twitched against the trigger, but she lacked the strength to pull it. Why did he have to be human? And why did she have to be? Why couldn't he look the monster and she be a machine? She tried closing her eyes for a moment, hoping that would allow her to fire, but it didn't.

If she couldn't shoot, she should run, but she couldn't lift her feet. Her boots might as well have been made of lead.

And then he was right in front of her. He pressed his left palm against the barrel of her rifle and gently pushed it away from himself. "You may be too feeble to even attempt to kill me, but you shall be able to help me on my quest." He reached down into the folds of his robe and drew a knife with a skyglass blade. She was going to be eaten. What a dumb way to die.

The explosion rang in her ears. The butt of her rifle slammed into her shoulder like a piston. She staggered backwards, bumped into the bannister. She must have pulled the trigger.

The shot could only have hit the opposite wall, but the priest must have been startled by the sudden noise. He'd dropped his knife and was bending down to pick it up. Or was he just holding his leg? Had the knife cut it in the fall?

Regardless, this was her chance. She lunged. Davids collided with him on her second running step, the momentum carrying them a few more paces into the room.

He flailed as he fell. She desperately groped for a hold as she stumbled over him. Her left hand remained clenched around the barrel, but she found the edge of a desk with her right. Her hand closed around the wood and she regained her balance.

The priest sat in front of her. He'd saved himself from completely falling prone by grasping her jumper with both hands. The colour of his sleeves and the unravelling wool was pretty much identical. There was nothing friendly about his smile now. He would go for the knife again. She couldn't let that happen.

Davids brought the butt of her rifle down on his face. It was gripped in her off hand and the angle really wasn't ideal for striking, but she gave him a kick for good measure. He let go with a gasp, finishing his fall.

She adjusted her grip so that both hands were wrapped around the barrel, raised her rifle above her head and held it there for a terrible moment. He was lying at her feet, bleeding. But she wouldn't let him get up again.

She swung the rifle down with as much force as she could bring to bear. A scream, the crack of bone.

But it was not his head that lay broken, but his forearm, lifted in hopeless defence. She'd have none of this.

Raising her rifle for a second blow, she stamped on him. Hobnails against flesh. Another scream. His hands dropped away from his face.

The rifle swung downwards, shattering his smile. He spat up blood through broken teeth. Its bright red matched the colour of his cassock.

She struck again.

He lay quite still now, but the blows continued. Her presence barely seemed required. She was nothing but a conduit, but motion. This was what had to happen. The ocean of blood kept growing.

Davids stopped abruptly. The bent rifle slipped from her trembling hands and dropped onto the priest's corpse. Breathing heavily, she stared at what she had done. Even out at sea, death was not absolutely permanent in the Neath, but she didn't think the priest would be getting up again.

Dizziness gripped her. The scene in front of her swam in and out of focus. There was blood everywhere. Or was that just the red carpet? It didn't matter. The whole world was awash with it. Not just that of the priest, but of the workers, of all those sacrificed to further the ambitions of the capitalist elite, be it in the factory, the field or on this sunless sea, and of all those struck down trying to resist. That of the Paris Commune, the children at the machines, the Haymarket demonstrators, the Wolfstack strikers...

And it wouldn't even end when the revolution came. Those in power now were as unlikely as the priest to surrender peacefully, they would rather have a massacre than give up anything at all. And they would be massacred in turn.

She fell to her knees. On the ground, the smell of blood was even more overpowering. The carpet was wet and sticky with it.

And once the massacres began, where would they stop? The French Revolution devoured its own and dissolved into a reign of terror, only for a new emperor to come to the throne. Was this to be the fate of future revolutions?

Her stomach revolted. The first heave brought up nothing. For a moment it seemed like it had been a transient feeling. Then she vomited. The sensation blocked out other thoughts. Three to four more times she heaved until the last dribbled from her mouth.

There was less vomit than blood, but its reek was stronger and more pleasant.

Davids forced herself to calm down. Yes, the French Revolution had ended in disaster and others had been destroyed before there was a chance to see how things would have turned out. But things rarely went right at the first try and there had been serious advances in the theory.

The danger from the upper classes was obvious, but it was to be feared that the leadership of the revolution would be vicious people, leaders were to be distrusted anyway and the courage to defy the thugs of the elite had to come from somewhere and it might come from brutality. Then there were opportunists looking for mayhem, violence and power rather than the good of humanity. More insidiously, some might start with the best of intentions, and achieve a little, only to discover that they liked money and power and were quite willing to switch sides once they had it. She had been the only survivor of the Dreaming Rose's crew and as such the sole inheritor of Captain Mayweather's fortune due to a family feud, so she'd tasted that sweet poison. But only for the briefest moment.

If history had one defining characteristic, it was that it had a lot of time. It might take many bloody failed attempts, crushed from without and betrayed from within, but there would be a perfect revolution at some point. It could only be stopped by fulfilling its ambitions, making it unnecessary. The world that followed would be worth it.

Davids doubted that she would live to see it, but she would gladly fight to bring it about. She looked at the battered body of the priest again. He was unrecognisable now. Hopefully she could avoid killing for it.

Then again, she would have to survive this first, or all that would be rather academic. And she thought she heard soft, unfamiliar voices over the echoes of the blast. They were speaking too quietly to make out what they were saying, but they seemed to be inside the building.

Where there was a priest, there was a congregation.

Back then, he had said that it would be quiet and painless, but this had been loud and painful. If they had been here any time at all, they must have heard her.

The rifle lay across the priest's corpse. She had a second bullet, but reloading was pointless. Her blows had bent the barrel and there would be further damage not immediately apparent to her. It would explode in her hands.

She reached for the hilt of her knife, but her bloodstained fingers slipped off it. The voices remained faint, but there seemed to be several people. Successfully fighting them off seemed unlikely, so if her death was inevitable she might as well leave it at one murder.

Perhaps she should just kill herself. It would then at least actually be her choice. More importantly, she'd be too dead to care what they did to her carcass. Particularly if they were not patient enough to see if she might come back to do her in again.

But no. Even if it was unlikely, even if she hated the Neath and capitalist society, if she had a chance, she wanted to live. Or not die here and now anyway. It might be a different matter if she could die as a martyr for the revolution or at least in the sunlight. But even in the latter case, she might still be of use to the revolution.

Davids scrambled to her feet. She turned to face the door. No one was there yet.

There was a key in the lock, so she went and closed the door quickly, although she was careful no to slam it. The voices were quieter, but they remained there.

Now what? Wait, locked in a room with the body of the man she had murdered for company, amid blood and vomit? If that was what it would take to survive, she would do it. But she couldn't wait forever and had no way of knowing when it would be a good moment to try slipping out.

Perhaps some of her comrades would come to her rescue. But that was a childish hope, she couldn't signal them from here. More likely, the Red Herring's crew would decide that she wasn't coming back and steam away without her, leaving her to die on this candle haunted isle. If they had any sense, Wood would replace her with the logistical duties.

There were some things she could not bear. Davids swallowed hard. It did little against the stinging taste of vomit. She had to escape, even if she died while trying. If she acted quickly, there might still be routes open. Perhaps she could make it out of the window. It was only the first floor. London anarchists faced worse falls every day.

She crossed the room. Was anyone standing outside? She peered at the glass, but could only make out her haggard reflection. But she could open it, she would be visible from the outside anyway. She struggled with the latch, then tore it open.

The air was cold and clean, shockingly different from the stench of blood, wax and vomit that dominated the room. Only candles stood vigil in the snow below. The coast was clear, except for the four and a half metre drop.

Davids drew her knife and threw it onto the carpet, her steel next to the priest's skyglass. She didn't want to land on it. As a last act, she knocked over a candle.

Then Davids clambered onto the windowsill. Just jumping would be quicker, but she'd rather lower herself as far as she could. She crouched on it, facing inwards and grasped the sill as firmly as possible. Inside, the fallen candle's flame licked at the blood-soaked carpet. Perhaps it would develop into a conflagration, perhaps it wouldn't. There was no time to aid the fire. It didn't really matter.

She stretched one leg out over the edge. For a moment, she felt like she couldn't get her second leg to do the same, her instincts yelling at her about the drop. Then, reminding herself not to scream, she pushed herself free.

She fell briefly, grazing her face against the wall. The abrupt halt sent a searing pain coursing up her arms. Dangling there was no more pleasant. Her fingers felt like they were on fire. She weighed too much. She kicked for a foothold, but found none. It still felt like a long way down, but there was nothing for it. She opened her left hand. The pain in her right fingers surged, her grip gave way.

Davids landed on her feet. She tried to stay upright, but bad footing and momentum had her tumbling backwards. Next thing she knew, she was lying on her back, staring at the cavern roof. It looked very much like the night sky.

All was quiet, save for her heavy breathing. Nobody else seemed to be around. Had she really just jumped out a window to escape faint voices she'd heard at edge of delirium, with the shot still reverberating in her ears? Yes, evidently. Merely being at the edge of madness therefore seemed an overly optimistic view of her mental state. She'd also savagely murdered the priest, so she'd better get going.

The snow was rather cold to lie in anyway. Davids got to her feet. Everything ached, but nothing seemed broken. She was lucky that the snow was there and that the wind had blown it up against the house, even if it had gotten down her boots and collar.

She looked around warily, but could make out no movement in the gloom between the candles. It seemed like she really was alone.

If the fire upstairs had taken hold, there was no sign of it yet. Looking down, a candle lay crushed in the depression left by her body. She almost laughed, then sobbed. She'd done what she'd set out to do. Now she'd have to live with it.

Davids trudged back to the ship. Perhaps another red-robed priest would hold murderous services on this island again all too soon, but it could be that she had achieved something. Either way, now she too could claim to have done evil in the Chapel of Lights.

THE END


End file.
